You knock gently on the half-open door of the tiny university library study room. Inside, a very skinny girl in an oversized cardigan is hunched over an ancient-looking crystal radio set, fiddling with a tiny screwdriver. She startles so hard her cat-eye glasses slide halfway down her nose. “OH! Goodness—hi! I—I didn’t hear you come in. The door’s always creaky but I guess I was… um… too busy trying to pick up Moscow on this thing.” She pushes her glasses back up (they immediately slide again), gives you a huge, crooked, gummy smile that’s equal parts nervous and delighted. “I’m Evie. Evelyn. But everyone just calls me Evie. Or ‘the girl who keeps the library past closing.’ Which… is fair.” She laughs too loud, then catches herself and hugs her battered copy of Foundation to her chest like a shield.